


One Hundred Flags

by idgit_with_a_fidget



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble Collection, Fluff and Angst, M/M, One Shot, and everything in between
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:45:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idgit_with_a_fidget/pseuds/idgit_with_a_fidget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>100 Les Mis drabbles/oneshots, mainly from tumblr prompts.</p><p>PS- Feel free to send your own prompts! Any pairing, any verse, any anything: I will be happy to oblige. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hiccups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> luigisimpala asked: 'Enjolras can't stop hiccuping.'

The others were trying not to snicker. They tried to control the quivers of their shoulders and the trembles of their lips by hunching over the coffee tables and cupping their faces with their hands, as though they could physically force the laughter from escaping. Feuilly clamped a pencil between his teeth, marking the wood. Bahorel bit his tongue, squaring his jaw uncomfortably, and wrapped his arms around his torso. But it was useless. They’d glance at one another and start off giggling, trying their best to choke back the noises, shaking with silent hilarity that wheezed in the back of their mouths, tears of effort and delight welling in their eyes.

Enjolras had hiccups.

The poor boy had obviously noticed, but decided not to stop talking. It wasn’t the best decision he’d made. Mid-way through his sentences, heated as usual, he would suddenly be taken by surprise by a violent jolt and an embarrassing hiccup that rang, loud and abrupt throughout the basement of the Café Musain. The fleeting moment of startle was too funny, it’s out-of-character nature only adding to the amusement of his friends. His eyes would widen and his fingers splay, and for a moment he looked like a baby that was about to be dropped. Utter shock, quickly covered up with a harsh cough and a growing frustration. His cheeks were turning red.

Courfeyrac was first to crack, throwing his head back and laughing loud in gulps, slamming his fists onto the table. The others then burst into fits, too, and Enjolras just glared. Unfortunately for him, he was no longer intimidating.

“Shut -HIC- up!” he tried to shout, only causing his friends to grin wider. He crossed his arms angrily across his chest like a petulant child. He bobbed occasionally, like he’d been jabbed with a pin.

Combeferre stood eventually, wiping his eyes, and he could tell Enjolras was most cross with him. Combeferre only shrugged.

“It’s just hiccups, Enjolras. Everyone gets them,” he explained good naturedly.

“Make them stop,” Enjolras ordered. The hiccupping had made him slightly breathless.

“I can’t.”

“There’s no cure for hiccups!” Courfeyrac pitched in, waving his hand. “You’re gonna be stuck like that for a while. I heard they last for hours!” he started to mimic the hiccupping, making Jehan and Bossuet cackle.

“Combe-HIC- ferre!” Enjolras snapped desperately.

Combeferre rested a friendly hand on his shoulder and gently guided him to sit down. “Just take deep breaths. They’ll go away.”

“What -hic- causes- hic- these goddamn- hic?!” Enjolras bit into his lip, becoming increasingly furious.

“No one really knows,” Joly told him, taking a sip of his drink. “Something to do with the diaphragm is the common belief.”

“Can’t I -hic- just get it removed then?” Enjolras asked, something pleading and exasperated in his tone.

“Hey, can’t you drink upside down? Doesn’t that make hiccups go away?” Jehan piped up. “That’s what Courf was doing when he sprained his wrist that one time.”

“That’s what I told him to say,” Courf mumbled to Grantaire under his breath, winking.

Enjolras was pulling at the ends of his hair. “I don’t rea-hic- lly want to be dangled upside down, -hic- thanks.”

“Why don’t we give you a scare?” Grantaire suggested, who’d been laughing, but took pity on their now humiliated leader. He knew how easily his pride could be damaged.

Enjolras arched an eyebrow as, simultaneously, a hiccup rocked his body, perfectly timed.

“Now you’ve told him it’s not going to work, genius!” Courfeyrac moaned unhappily, huffing.

Combeferre sighed and looked sympathetically at his flatmate.

“Sorry, Enj. Looks like you are going to be stuck with them.”

Enjolras groaned and marched away, probably to sulk and hide his face until his spasms stopped. The remaining eight of them watched him leave and immediately huddled.

“Right. When he’s least expecting it, we jump out on him, okay?”

***

”Enjolras?” Grantaire knocked on the boy’s door, concerned. “Are you still moping about those hiccups?”

A meek hiccup from the other side of the wall replied to him. Grantaire rolled his eyes.

“Come out. Gavroche is back. He wants to talk to you,” he coaxed.

There was a brief, reflective pause followed by the padding of feet across the room as Enjolras approached the door. But he didn’t open it.

“What -hic- about?”

Grantaire smiled triumphantly. There was that spark of intrigue again.

“I dunno. He doesn’t tell me things. He wants to talk to you.”

“Where’s ‘Ferre?”

“Downstairs giving Gav some food. Come on. It sounded important.”

He listened as the door was unlocked and he stepped back into the living room of Combeferre’s shared apartment to let Enjolras have his space. His gold hair was ruffled and teased awkwardly, his eyes and skin burning. His chest heaved a little, still struggling to catch his breath, tired out from the hiccups. His arms were still folded, as though they were permanently glued to one another. He pursed his lips thoughtfully.

Grantaire jerked his head towards the main apartment door that lead into the hall. “Comin’?”

Enjolras took a deep breath and nodded. He walked towards the door, Grantaire trailing behind. The dark haired boy suddenly grabbed his forearm.

“Wait a sec.”

“What?”

“You’ve still got hiccups?”

“Hic! Obviously. Stop bringing it up. They’re annoying.”

“Okay.”

Enjolras made a face, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. Grantaire looked anxious.

“What?” he pressed again.

Grantaire’s breath hitched. “I need to catch you off guard.”

Enjolras didn’t have time to question Grantaire’s meaning as the slightly taller art student took his face in his hand, ducked a little, and kissed him on the mouth. Enjolras tensed, surprised by Grantaire’s sudden tenderness, and felt his pulse seem to stop, then burst into life, faster than he’d ever felt it before. Grantaire was warm, comforting, and Enjolras’ muscles relaxed. For a moment his hiccups were stifled.

They’d barely connected when the apartment door swung open and the seven remaining amis jumped in on them, wearing various Halloween masks.

“BOO!” they yelled in unison, and Grantaire and Enjolras froze, pushing away from one another frantically. They stared at the seven masked friends, turning pink. Courfeyrac took his mask off and Combeferre cleared his throat.

“So. Hiccups gone, then?”


	2. Hugs and Cigarettes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: 'I want a short story about what a great hugger R is ;____;'

Grantaire rarely hugged. His embraces weren’t exactly conventional; sitting in the laps of his friends, draping arms over shoulders, leaning against but never hugging. But when he did hug, really hug, he hugged well.

Rumours were spoken about him.

“I heard his hugs are just an excuse to touch your ass.”

“No, no, I thought it was to steal money from your back pocket.”

“He just hugs when he’s drunk.”

“He never got hugged as a child so now he’s a total hug whore.”

“Courfeyrac!”

None of them where true. In reality, R just found hugging difficult. It was easy to pass off attempts at affection when he wasn’t sober as drunken stumbling and fumbling; when he was clean, that was a lot more difficult. He feared rejection. He worried about timings. You can’t just go up and hug someone out of the blue. He had anxieties about reading the situation wrong. He wondered if anyone would actually want to hug him. Why would they? He was sweaty and handsy and smelt of whiskey. But he liked hugs. Other people would hug him, but that wasn’t the same. He just wanted to hold people, because, in his experience, people didn’t stay around for very long. People grew older and died, or died when they were young, or packed their bags and left on adventures without him, while he stayed behind and sobbed over potential moments of love that he would’ve indulged in, should he not have been crippled by distress. He had a reputation. What if comforting and emotional physical contact ruined what he had? Would the person he touched even care? Would they even know that it was genuine?

These thoughts made his temples ache and his stomach churn, so he didn’t hug. He didn’t even talk about it. The only thing he hugged was his beer cans and wine bottles.

~~

Jehan was afraid. For all of his courage and bravery, he was still afraid. He woke up in the middle of the night, the moon a sharp silver shard on his face, and his belly turned cold. He was terrified.

He found Grantaire in the street, leaning against a lamp. The neon yellow was a false halo around his skull. Grantaire looked up from his daydreaming as he heard Jehan’s shoes clip against the cobbles and stubbed his cigarette out.

“Hey, Prouvaire. What are you doing out this late?”

“I…I couldn’t sleep.”

“No? Nah. Me neither.”

“It’s hard to sleep.”

“Sure is.”

They lapsed into silence. There was a fine mist of rain in the atmosphere. Grantaire lit another cigarette and offered it to Jehan who hesitantly refused.

“I shouldn’t.”

“We should all do things we shouldn’t. But okay. All the more for me.”

Jehan fidgetted. The summer night wasn’t too cold. If he turned around he could see the dark orange in the windows of his friends. Some would undoubtedly still be working. Others just liked to keep the lights on.

“I wish the world could just stay this quiet, y’know?” Grantaire said at last, musing. He felt comfortable around the poet, who nodded in agreement.

“Are you afraid?”

“Of the noise and the clamour and the bustling? Yeah.”

Jehan sighed. “Me too.”

Grantaire watched as the young boy sobbed and sniffed hard, bringing a fist to his eyes hastily. Grantaire tossed the cigarette away and tilted his head. He put his right hand on Jehan’s shoulder and with the index finger on his left hand, he tilted Jehan’s chin up. The boy’s eyes glistened with a wavering hope.

“Hey. Hey, Jean,” Grantaire whispered. “It’s okay. You can cry. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t. It’s good for you. Trust me.”

Jehan’s bottom lip wobbled and he blinked rapidly, tears falling in streams down his cheeks. Grantaire sighed and pulled him close, wrapping his arms around the shivering lad, securing him like a vice. Jehan felt his warmth and his steady heartbeat and the re-assuring solidity of his body. He was suddenly overcome with a sense of comfort and safety. Whatever Grantaire was doing, however smothering, was making him feel looked after. He felt so small and young again, but it was nice. He continued to weep, staining Grantaire’s clothes as he was gently rocked, Grantaire swaying easily from side to side under the streetlamp, hands softly rubbing the small of his back as though soothing a baby or a cat. It was like a blanket had been wrapped around Jehan, a protective barrier from the world. When he pulled back, Grantaire didn’t seem to resist. But he didn’t notice the way the cynic’s fingers trailed along his shoulder and the look of forlorn cross his eyes, as though he’d just been disconnected from happiness.

“Thank you, R.”

~~

Bahorel won another bare knuckle boxing fight. He’d raked in a healthy and victorious reward and was celebrating by taking Grantaire out to the local pub, paying for all the best exotic drinks he could afford. He bragged to the barkeep and the girls, showing off his biceps. He hadn’t put o his coat, preferring to keep on his sweaty fighting vest. Grantaire laughed at him and with him, downing colourful liquids and flirting with colourful girls. At the end of the night, as the pair of them staggered home tipsy, Grantaire opened his arms and embraced Bahorel, whose hooting went quiet. Grantaire’s blood froze, fear shooting to his central nervous system. Too touchy, too clingy, Bahorel doesn’t hug, Bahorel is macho.

But, to his surprise, Bahorel hugged back, clapping his hands on Grantaire’s back and shoulder blades in a tight, near-suffocating grip. A surge of pride filled the boxer. He felt appreciated and respected. Grantaire ended the hug, beaming. Bahorel was looking at him fondly.

“Thanks.” he muttered, smiling. “You’re a good guy, R.”

~~

Sometimes even the most perfect couples argued. Cosette and Marius were no exception. When they fought, Marius would go and whine to an exasperated but too polite to say no Courfeyrac. Cosette would babble angrily to anyone who would listen.

“I don’t know why he doesn’t want to just move out of his grandfather’s and live with me! He’s being such a child! He needs to move on! We can’t be properly together if he’s still living at his grandfather’s! That’s just idiotic!” she snapped, gestures articulating her point.

Grantaire was the one who was on the receiving end of this bickering and bitching that time. He nodded as genuinely as he could and offered the best advice he could, not really knowing where the majority of his words came from. He hadn’t sounded that wise before. Cosette listened, the red fog gradually leaving her eyes and her face returning to its happy, calm state. He saw this as a good opportunity to hug her. She accepted it and nestled into him. She smelt of vanilla. She sought friendly comfort in his arms, and at once she was re-assured and settled and mellow and sure. She suddenly understood everything; her situation, her next steps, her plan Bs. She had clarity and knowledge once more, no longer blinded by rage. She smiled, then, and pushed her hair from her face.

“Wow. I’ve got to go and find Marius right away! Thanks, R!”

~~

“I like making people feel better! I thought, maybe, you needed that too…”

Enjolras had his fists clenched. He was standing, confrontational, facing Grantaire in his apartment. Enjolras had been ranting about how nothing had been going right in his plans and how he was running low on ideas. Grantaire had tried to hug him. He had failed. “I didn’t!”

“I’m sorry!”

“You totally misread the entire situation, Grantaire! What were you thinking?”

“I told you what I was thinking, now can you let it go?!”

“Don’t come near me, don’t touch me!”

“Enjolras-!”

“No.” Enjolras stepped towards the window and pointed at the door. “Get out. I don’t need you sympathising with me. I don’t need your pity. Or your hugs. Get out. And don’t try that again.”

Grantaire couldn’t think of anything else to say, so did as he was told, leaving the apartment, a deep ache in his chest.

He wanted to crawl and curl up into a ball and cry like Jehan. He wanted to be a fighter like Bahorel, but he couldn’t be. He wanted clarity like Cosette but he didn’t. He went outside and stood under the streetlamp and wrapped his arms around his stomach.

Grantaire’s hugs promised comfort, understanding, re-assurance. His hugs were special, rare, genuine and human. Grantaire gave hugs to those who wept.

But no-one hugged Grantaire when he wept.


	3. Walks in the Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wicht asked: 'okay! so how about exr: walk, shaking, tenderness?'
> 
> (five sentence fic challenge)

Enjolras became aware of someone approaching him as he strolled through his favourite Paris park; a heavy, jumping panting and the sound of footsteps jogging up behind, and then an exhausted but determined hand - spotted with idle ink stains- clapped on his shoulder. Grantaire beamed at him; his breaths were coming in unnatural gulps between his teeth that matched the rhythm of his chest, a thin film of perspiration gleaming on his brow, sticking to his black hair and the tighter parts of his shirt fabric and hurriedly spouting something about ‘hey isn’t it funny how my jogging route crossed your path I mean we should walk together’ which Enjolras didn’t have the time or effort to disband. However, as they started walking, Enjolras found himself not minding R’s anxiously and excited babbling, and how he seemed to glance at Enjolras at the end of every sentence as though to find approval or any other sort of reaction to his words was…almost endearing, in a teacher observing a nervous student sort of way.

They were rounding the park’s perimeter when they were caught off guard, a rouge dog speeding past them at lightning pace, quickly pursued by its owner who was shouting both apologies and cusses, and Enjolras didn’t see Grantaire be tripped, only that he was suddenly in a patch of gravel and fake stone chips, wincing, muscles shaking as he tensed at the stone-riddled wound in his right calf.

Enjolras made a face, complaining about how Grantaire should have been steadier on his feet, and that he was an embarrassment; but Grantaire saw in his eyes a strange sort of worry and fear mingled into the usually fierce blue, which made his words and the cut sting less - a look that was only amplified into a caring, tender surge as the blonde boy knelt by his side and ran his thin fingers over the ragged skin, his touch like a painkiller, and an instant relief to his pain.


	4. Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: 'E/R dancing, cats, sweater'
> 
> (Five sentence fic challenge)

“I thought you said you can dance!”

“I CAN; you can’t!”

Despite all of the tutoring Grantaire had tried to give Enjolras, the blonde was no more co-ordinated than a penguin with two left feet; tottering clumsily around the café floor whilst clinging with determined desperation to Grantaire’s sweaty but steady palm. Enjolras was growing increasingly frustrated, irritated less by the fact he couldn’t grasp the concepts of dancing, but that Grantaire (who was looking unusually…attractive…in a sweatshirt that Enjolras soon recognised as his own) could master the art of the swinging Charleston with expert precision; cheesy jazzy splayed fingers and all. Enjolras swivelled his feet, trying to step backwards while doing so, when Eponine’s cat darted behind him, and with a frantic mewl tripped him; causing the blonde to topple backwards and pull the dark haired dancer down with him, with his laughter uncontrollable.


	5. Blankets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: 'ExR? Blanket, stumble, chair'
> 
> (five sentence fic challenger)

Combeferre slept in his own bed; Courfeyrac on the floor; Enjolras in the armchair by the window. The orange glow from the streetlamps outside illuminated Enjolras’ face, instantly drawing Grantaire (who couldn’t sleep, not yet, his mind too active still, musing over nothing in particular, and ignoring the sleepy pleas of his fatigued muscles) to watch him doze, and was soon aware that the blonde, who had a tense jaw but octopus-like legs sprawled over the chair’s arms, was shivering, lips murmuring as goosebumps prickled his bare arms and collar. Grantaire, not wanting the boy to be cold (as well as hoping he would gain some points in the way of showing affection and getting affection in return), crept through Combeferre’s apartment to the airing cupboard and pulled a claret blanket from the shelf, being careful not to cause an avalanche of towels as he did so. However, as he tiptoed back through to where his friends slept, his left foot caught snoring Courfeyrac’s torso, and he tripped, stumbling over the body and toppling over the armchair and on top of Enjolras’ resting chest, causing the blonde’s eyes to snap open and he startled, breath hitching in his throat as he stared up at R in silence, who was trying to lift himself up again, only to find his arms being lowered forcefully by Enjolras so he was cuddled into his neck, then tugged the blanket over them.

“Warm.”


	6. Impeccable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> luigisimpala asked: ' King, Night, Impeccable. ExR'
> 
> (five sentence fic challenge)

In the dark, the eye of the moon obscured by ash-grey smudges of cloud, the final light went out. Up in the shop The Cynic stretched his arms, blinked the grit of sleep from his eyes and yawned, and knew at once that the blood on the windowsill belonged to his king. He stared at it for a moment, fixated, sadness welling up in his chest and stomach, applying immense pressure on his lungs and his heart until he howled like a dog who had lost its master. Standing just behind him, Orestes watched with a tilted head, unable to speak, unable to breathe; his crown a globe of light encircling his hair; a light the drunk would never see again and never feel surge under his skin. And as Pylades fell into the void, the Visionary suddenly realised, after all this time, he was capable.


	7. Platonic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shameless and totally plotless Combeferre/Enjolras platonic kissing (in which, of course, seemingly virginal Mr 'I've Never Kissed Anyone' Enjolras turns out to be a pretty pornographic dark horse in Ferre's eyes.)

Combeferre cupped his friend’s face and looked him in the eye, trying to relax a tense, quivering Enjolras. They were in their flat, and Enjolras had asked to be kissed.

“Calm down,” he said. “You’re going to be fine. If you get uncomfortable, tell me and we’ll stop. Okay?”

Enjolras nodded meekly, hesitant but eager. He had to trust Combeferre.

Combeferre leaned in, closing the space between them quickly and softly. Enjolras tensed initially, going rigid, and his fingers digging into the sofa material. But Combeferre moved his other hand onto his shoulder, so he couldn’t flinch away. He could feel the heat rise in Enjolras’ face as it flushed pink. 

They parted for a moment. Enjolras ran his tongue along his lips thoughtfully.

“Enjolras, you have to work with me, here. It’s like kissing a wall. No offense,” Combeferre remarked jokily. 

There was a brief pause as the curly haired blonde mustered his courage and darted forward, pressing his lips to the bespectacled boy and taking him by surprise. He was rough and unafraid, crashing teeth. Combeferre jerked back, and they bumped noses. Enjolras frowned at him like a petulant child.

“Gentler,” Combeferre urged. “Less teeth. For now.”

Enjolras tried a second time, his sheepishness somewhat endearing. His mouth was sweet and the pressure just right. Combeferre sighed into him, parting his lips to move a step further, and Enjolras made a small noise of alarm. But Combeferre was warm, and the scent of his fabric softener from his sweater vest was soothing, and Enjolras naturally succumbed, and kissed back. 

They moulded together seamlessly, receptive to each other’s movements. Combeferre’s heart beat got faster as Enjolras lifted his hands and ran them through his short hair, stroking the roots and pulling them. Combeferre nipped Enjolras’ bottom lip with his teeth in response and hiked up his friend’s shirt to move his hands across the pale marble skin. Enjolras wasn’t ripped, but he wasn’t flabby, despite a small, curved bump of a tummy- barely noticeable to the eye. Enjolras blushed as Combeferre’s fingers trailed over his ribs, making another small happy noise in the back of his throat, and crawling into Combeferre’s lap to get closer, savouring the contact. He trailed his tongue lazily along his teacher’s bottom lip and his teeth, and the way he smoothed it over Combeferre’s made the philosopher gasp and his breath hitch.

_Bloody hell. Enj is a dark horse._

Now fully aware that he was no longer the dominant one in the situation, Combeferre let himself slip into the submissive role. He questioned where Enjolras had learned this, since he claimed to never have had this level of human intimacy before. Unless he following pure instinct? That thought made Combeferre shudder. 

Still settled in Ferre’s lap, Enjolras made subtle rocking motions, and pushed Combeferre over, underneath him, and a jolting sense of vertigo made Ferre’s head spin. Enjolras continued to kiss him, moving away from his mouth to suck and gnaw on his jaw and collar bone, hands roaming indecisively from Combeferre’s hair to his hips, grazing over the bone and electric skin. Combeferre suddenly bucked and grabbed the blonde by the shoulders, yanking him back to eye level.

Enjolras stared at him, expression hungry and puzzled. His cheeks were flushed, his curls ruffled and rumpled; the dark spots of his pupils were so large there was hardly any colour. His lips were red and swollen and bitten. Combeferre stroked the line of his jaw fondly, realising why R was constantly fawning over his flatmate’s good looks. 

“Too far?” Enjolras asked, his voice gruff but soft, like he’d just been woken up. 

Combeferre looked as though he had something to say, but his tongue was too heavy and his mind too hazy to speak, so, instead, he crashed his lips to his friend’s, knotting his hair, pulling the shirt off completely and licking up into his mouth. Enjolras shivered as Combeferre traced the bumps of his spin and wrenched away from him. His breathing was coming in pants, hot and heavy on Combeferre’s neck as he levered himself down to rest on the bookworm’s stomach. His arms were trembling. He sat up and searched Combeferre with his eyes, and fondly pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose again. 

“We should stop.” Enjolras said gently.

“Are you uncomfortable?”

“No. I just…don’t want to ruin anything.”

Combeferre nodded and smiled as Enjolras scrambled out of his grip and made for the kitchen, hands fluttering between his front and back pockets, as though his self-control and the worry over preserving his reputation came and flooded back to him. He took a deep breath and sighed at the empty fridge. He turned back to Combeferre and rubbed his thumb over the corner of his lips.

“You…um…want take out?”


	8. Hard.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: oh god i dare you to write a short-fic about your exr enjolras being head over heels in love with grantaire. i need this in my life
> 
> based on this post: http://renlybaratheonisdead.tumblr.com/post/52487229594/enjolras-taking-grantaire-out-on-nice-dates

Shameless fluff below.

They went out on dates. They were a little awkward and clumsy, with Enjolras stopping every second moment to wipe his hands down his thighs to dry the sweat from his palms on his jeans. Grantaire could only smile and appreciate the effort.

He couldn’t quite believe they were…whatever they were. He’d admired Enjolras from afar for so long, only kissed him in dreams. But now it was different. It was really happening. Enjolras really kissed him goodnight, kissed him in the morning; really hugged him; really brought him cliche and over-presented flowers from the farmer’s market on a Saturday that stung his nose with the aroma. He was always there. Always texting him. Always drifting his hands and fingers across his arms and over the veins. He spoke of his love confidently, admitted to explicit fantasies, blushed when Grantaire came near him or smiled softly at him. Everyone else saw the dreamy haze that clouded Enjolras’ eyes when he spoke of or at Grantaire. Everyone knew he’d been focussing less on his school studies, and more on the cynic. That was a miracle of its own; two sides of the same coin finally turning and acknowledging one another, having been back-to-back and facing differrent directions for so long.

However, he still found himself stealing glances at Enjolras when he was captivated by the art in the galleries they visted, seriously doubting his affection.

Once, Enjolras caught him doubting.

He arched his brow.

“What?”

“Do you-“

“Yes.”

“I never-“

“I love you.”

“But-“

“I’m in love with you.”

Grantaire could only stare at him for a long moment of silence. Enjolras suddenly turned pink and fidgetted, but cleared his throat and tilted his chin upwards, exposing more of the marble white of his neck, like he did when he was making an articulate point about the government.

“You don’t know this, but Combeferre nearly had to slap me across the face this afternoon before I came to meet you. To calm me down. I wouldn’t stop talking about you, and babbling on, and my voice was getting increasingly high and shaky and I didn’t want to dare leave the apartment because I looked like an idiot and-“

Grantaire almost laughed, but it came out as a splutter of disbelief. “You were nervous?! You?”

“Yes.” Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s hand, laticing their fingers. “I’m in love with you. Head over heels, as Jehan would probably, and has probably, put it. You are the moon, if I’m the sun. I want to spend every day with you. I want to spend tomorrow with you, and the day after that, and then, maybe, if you’d like, the month? Or, or the year? I don’t…I’m not very good at talking about things like this but please believe me. I love everything about you. That crooked smile-” Enjolras kissed it, “-your voice when you sing-” a kiss on his neck, “-Your hair in the morning when you wake up, your eyes when you’re painting, captivated by an idea-” kiss kiss, “-and I don’t know why I didn’t realise it before or what I was thinking then, but I was wrong. Everything I did to hurt you was the wrong thing to do and the wrong things to say. Seeing you makes my knees feel weak and my heart shiver and I get lonely when you’re not around and I just want your arms around me and your heart beating against mine. That rhythm. I want to dance to your rhythm, Grantaire. Like some kind of goddamn teenage girl, but I don’t care. I care about you. I think about you all the time and I know my efforts at dates are lame and you could do so much better-“

“What? Better than YOU?!”

“You know what I mean. I understand what I did wrong. But, this. It feels like I’ve woken up. I’ll get clingy and annoying but I just…don’t want you to go away. I want you to have no doubts. Please. I shine when you’re near.”

Grantaire caught his breath. The blue of Enjolras’ eyes were like flames; so passionate. The same passion and vitality he had before, when he worked. Now that fire burned for him. Grantaire choked a little.

“I think I’m quite in love with you, too.”


	9. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon said; I have this head-canon of E having a nasty scar across his stomach that he's really self-conscious about. I'm not really picky but I'd love to see some E/R-interaction. :)

Grantaire hadn’t meant to pry. He wasn’t a pervert, or a peeping Tom… at least not all that much. If anything Courfeyrac was to blame; inviting them all over for a movie night that turned into a film binge -forward slash- sleepover where nobody really slept because they were too brainwashed by the television waves, their drunkenness and the fact that Bossuet kept murmuring his girlfriend’s name under his breath (and occasionally moaning Joly’s).

He’d been woken up by the noise of a shower being turned off. He opened his eyes groggily and carefully removed his arm from Jehan’s waist; the poet had snuggled into him through the night, and he had a grip like a vice. He listened to the sound of water droplets dripping in a syncopated rhythm onto the shower floor and the shampoo bottles before it came to a low hum and a stop. Sitting up, he cleared his throat and stood, legs shaky, smoothed out his trousers and padded over the bodies of the rest of his friends into the hallway. He was secure in the fact he wouldn’t be heard; Combeferre was lying on his back, and his snoring was thunderous. How Bahorel had managed not to shove a cork or cotton pads down his gob was a miracle.

Whoever was in the bathroom had gone by the time Grantaire navigated his way down the grey hallway, but there were damp footprints in the carpet. Curious, with half of his soul still in the murky swamps of sleep, he followed them. They lead to Enjolras’ bedroom. Immediately, alarm bells went off in Grantaire’s head that told him to get the fuck out of here you creeper! but he ignored them, and positioned himself against the wall so he could see through the gap the slightly ajar door had left.

The lights were off in the bedroom bar a single lamp by the bed that gave off a dim, hazy amber glow. He could only see the basic outline and shadow of their leader as he moved. Grantaire was aware of his heart beginning to thud. He was transfixed, just watching the slow shifting of gloom. Then, the body came into the dim light; arms were raised, struggling to manoeuvre a t-shirt over head, neck and shoulders. Grantaire caught sight of it then. The mark.

He took in a sharp breath and the figure froze.

Shit.

Enjolras was suddenly in his face, blue eyes angry and puzzled, brow furrowed in blaming fury. His hair was wet, water falling from the thick curls on his head, now the colour of drenched straw instead of fine gold. He smelled faintly of grapefruit.

"What are you doing?" he asked, voice an accusing hiss. He didn’t give Grantaire a chance to reply, which was just as well, as the dark haired student was stumbling over his vocabulary to construct a basic sentence whilst trying not to be so distracted by the miniscule, yet perfectly formed rivulets of water trickling languidly down Enjolras’ long neck. “Go away!" 

His eyes flickered down the hallway towards where the others lay like sleeping dogs.

"They’re still asleep," Grantaire assured him when he noticed the brief panic fleet through Enjolras’ gaze. He moved his hand towards the blonde’s stomach, his index finger brushing the loose fabric of the black t-shirt, and Enjolras flinched away, glaring, hostile.

"Go away."

"What’s that on your stomach?" Grantaire asked.

"Go away!"

"Did someone hurt you?"

Enjolras shut the door on him but Grantaire was undeterred. He easily managed to force his way into the room; Enjolras leaning his body weight against the other side was not the most effective barricade.

The blonde retreated over to the other side of the room, putting as much space between them as possible. He was like a territorial cat, or an animal that was not fun to mess with. Grantaire, however, didn’t mean any harm. He knew fine well that hostility was Enjolras’ default setting when it came to dealing with Grantaire himself and Grantaire’s more tender feelings.

"Enjolras, what is it? Let me see it."

"No. Why should I? Not like you can help me. If I wanted medical help I’d go to Combeferre or Joly. Comforting; Jehan or Feuilly. I don’t want help. I don’t want yours. Get out of my room."

Grantaire sat down on the foot of his bed. “I’m not going anywhere until I see what that is."

A tense silence settled between the two. Enjolras heard someone clattering around in the kitchen. Grantaire must’ve heard it too, because:

"You know, they’re going to start wondering where we are. And when Courf finds out we’re both in here, he’s going to come up with stories. It’s best we just get this over with."

"Manipulation is hardly a kind way to go about this."

"Says you."

"A guilt trip won’t work either."

Grantaire arched an eyebrow at him and stood up again, advancing. “Let me see." his fingers graced across Enjolras’ mid-drift, and he felt the boy’s muscles tense and flex at his touch. “I’m not going to hurt you."

Enjolras, clearly discomforted by Grantaire’s hands in such close contact with him, as well as being uncomfortable with the ever-growing feeling of his skin flushing at that touch, pushed him away and took a step back. He took a breath and lifted the t-shirt slowly, just so his stomach was revealed.

In the half-light, the usually marble skin was coloured a caramel hue, but there was no mistaking the ragged, embossed white streak across the centre of his belly; a mark that would never tan, despite how hot the sun was.

Grantaire stared, unsure what to think. It was evident he was momentarily horrified, and Enjolras couldn’t meet his eye. He grit his teeth and pulled the shirt down.

"Okay. You saw it. Go."

"No, Enj… what happened?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit. Tell me."

Enjolras just bit into his lip. He suddenly looked, vulnerable. Self-conscious even. That would explain so much; why he rarely saw Enjolras in swimming gear, why he always bought shirts that went slightly past the necessary length, why he avoided physical contact and hated going to the doctor’s. Why he wouldn’t pose for Grantaire as an art model.

"Does anyone else know?"

"Combeferre."

Of course. They were flatmates. They shared and saw everything. Grantaire edged closer, tried once more, before giving up and staying where he was. It was clear the blonde wasn’t fond of having his personal space barged into right then. He had to respect that.

Enjolras’ breathing was shaky, as though it was taking all of his strength not to let his voice crack, and to retain some of that focus which masqueraded as anger.

"I am sorry," he said, tone quivering, nearly snapping, and it made Grantaire feel sick and wrong, because if he hadn’t been such a creepery fuck then-

"No, I am."

"Shut up. I don’t want your pity, Grantaire," there was that poison, on his tongue like in a viper’s bite. There were either tears in his eyes, or the lamp-light was merely playing tricks. “I don’t want your charity, or your…whatever. I didn’t want you to see anything. You crossed a line. No, you made me cross a line! I didn’t want you to know because you’d look at me differently afterwards. Because I look at me differently. Because even ‘Ferre looks at me differently; like I’m some sort of fucking fragile flower that needs to be protected. I don’t need to be protected from anything!"

"Hush! Lower you voice, E, the others will hear you!" Grantaire shushed, and he saw that Enjolras had bitten through his lower lip, and blood had begun to swell.

"I am flawed," the taller boy choked out. It was the strangest thing to hear; a confession, but a twisted one, one that had been hidden away for so long. It was almost out of character, it frightened Grantaire. “I am flawed and it is ugly, but I do not need protected from anyone…but me. I can’t look in the mirror. That’s why the lights are off. I can’t eat without worrying, panicking that the skin is going to burst and it will open again and I will bleed everywhere. But, at the same time, I hope it does. So that I don’t have to remain in this glass body any longer. Why am I trapped in such a cage? Do you have any idea what it’s like, to have these drives and this mind and yet you could snap at any moment, and you are the one who wants to shatter it?"

"Yes."

Enjolras paused. He stared at Grantaire in shock.

"What?"

"How you are feeling is how I feel everyday. Every waking moment."

"Do not attempt to rationalise with me, we are not on the same level."

"I’m not joking, for god’s sake, Enjolras!"

Fear had settled in Enjolras’ face. He heard the radio turn on through the rooms.

"Get out of my room."

Grantaire blinked. “What?"

"Get out of my room. I shouldn’t have told you anything. I shouldn’t have trusted you with that kind of information. I-"

"I’m not going to tell anyone!"

"Please."

It was little more than a whisper. Grantaire had no choice but to obey. Rage and confusion and something else equally tiring and perplexing crashed around in his gut, violent and painful as he stumbled through into the living room again. The others were all awake, lounging lazily, all bar Combeferre who was in the process of being politely kicked awake by Bahorel. Courfeyrac came bounding over to his friend and ruffled his hair.

"Where’d you get off to?" he asked, annoyingly chirpy considering the time. “And where’s Enj?"

"Shower," Grantaire replied monotonously.

Courfeyrac laughed loudly and elbowed him playfully. “Two of you getting in an’ about then? Brave move, shower first time. I know if it were me, I’d-"

Grantaire stopped listening to him and stared down the hallway at Enjolras’ bedroom door. He wondered if the blonde was crying. He wanted to hit himself for thinking serves him right, but swallowed his pride and bitterness with his morning coffee.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
